


Funeral for a Friend

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff and fun.  Not to worry--the only death is that of the computer.  Multi-fandom nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral for a Friend

## Funeral for a Friend

by Jantique

Pet FLy having abandoned them, Jim and Blair, like Lincoln, now belong to the ages. All other characters know who they belong to. (Well, Dief belongs to Fraser.)

I wrote this for "Mona Ramsey" when her computer died. I hope she and the other authors mentioned will consider this a tribute.

* * *

**FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND**

By Jantique 

**FOR MONA**

The pallbearers solemnly carried the pallet bearing the deceased to the grassy knoll. (No, not that "grassy knoll". In fact Agent Mulder was off chasing some kook who claimed to have seen a Ferengi spaceship land in New Mexico, although his worser half, Krycek, was taking notes behind a tree. There had to be someone here he could blackmail.) 

Befitting the solemnity of the occasion, the mourners were wearing full dress uniform, dress tartan kilt, et cetera. Lacroix, of course, wore black. The pallbearers, who consisted of Commander Chakotay, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, James Ellison and Bruce Wayne (in other words, the big guys), laid the pallet down to the side of the spot where the grass had been cleared, but the earth not yet removed. With a flourish, Luke Skywalker waved his lightsaber. Dirt flew everywhere, leaving a squarish hole. The mourners brushed themselves off, spitting out loam, then lined up on either side, with Joe Dawson at the head to deliver the eulogy. At the end, a woman dressed in black (and it looked very good on her), the lone female present, was sobbing uncontrollably. She was being comforted in her bereavement by Blair Sandburg, who quietly urged her to let it all out, go with the flow, and insisted that they were all there for her. Fortunately, she didn't pay him much more attention than anyone else did. 

Joe cleared his throat and began. "We are here to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of . . . um, does anyone know its name?" Tom Paris helpfully chirped, "Well, when Mona talked to it, she usually banged her fist against it and called it, 'You no-good, mind-messing, diseased son of a--" 

"Ahem!" Commander Chakotay cleared his throat, kicking Tom in the shin for emphasis. 

"Yeow!" Jeez, he could take a hint! Just trying to be helpful! Fine, the next time Chak wanted to play Lucky Starr and the Space Pirate, let him call Kim! Or Tuvok! Or . . . hmm, maybe that wasn't such a good idea, after all. Lost in his own thoughts, Paris was quiet for the rest of the proceedings. 

Dawson continued, "No one expected the fatal crash which so untimely robbed us of, um, the Dearly Departed--" 

Benton Fraser decided this would be a good time to play 'Taps'. (At least, that's what everyone assume it was supposed to be. Ellison turned his hearing dial waaay down.) Diefenbaker, always respectful, decided to salute in his own way. He was just aiming for the beige box on the ground when a large black panther--or jaguar--whatever the hell, it growled at him. He wasn't fluent in Feline, but it didn't sound like, "Let's play. You can top." Better part of valor and all that, he trotted over to the nearest tree and did his business there, managing to nail Krycek. 

But back to poor, brave, bereaved Mona. Nick Knight picked up the corpse (which didn't actually look much different than when it was alive, save that its spark, that inner fire, its Quickening, was gone) and reverently laid it in the hole. Mona sobbed, hiccuped and tried to throw herself in as well. Unfortunately, since the hole was only about a foot square, she sort of went Splat! on the dirt. She picked herself up, casting dark looks around, daring anyone to laugh, and muttered under her breath, "I don't need you; I've got 'Sports Night'. Where are those guys, anyway? Oh yeah, no pants." Fortunately, most the men were otherwise occupied. Methos and Lucien were waxing nostalgic about the Roman Empire under Caligula ("the good old days") and wondering whether: a) vampires had a Quickening (M) / b) it was time for lunch (L). Tom Paris and Richie Ryan were eyeing each other, wondering about possible common ancestors, with--how romantic!--the same thread of melody running through both their brains: "An American in Paris". Chakotay's and Sandburg's wolves were busy humping each other's brains out. (No, real wolves can't--or don't--"69". One of the advantages of being a Spirit Guide.) Ray I and Ray II had just figured out that they had more in common with each other than either of them did with Fraser, so. . . . 

Chakotay and D. M. of the C. M. went over to Mona and handed her something. "Here, Mona. We know it's not much, but we didn't want you to forget about us." 

Mona gulped and attempted a brave smile. "Oh, thanks, boyz! You know I would never forget about you." She stared at the items in her hands, a book of lined white paper with black-and-white covers, vaguely reminiscent of first grade, and a pointy yellow stick with a bit of rubber at the end. "Um . . . what is it?" 

D. M. of the C. M. explained, "See, you can write in this, until you, umm, get your new computer." Mona almost burst into tears again, but was fascinated by the challenge of the new technology. "Okay, this is the stylus, but where's the keyboard? How do you turn it on?" 

Paris helpfully piped up, "Just say, 'Computer on'. Yeow!" (Other shin.) Sandburg took over--after all, he was the academic expert around here. Plus, in the wilds of Peru he'd worked under primitive conditions, without so much as a laptop! "See, " he gently guided Mona's fingers, "this is a pencil. You write here, in the book. You don't have to worry about memory, and it will never crash." 

"Ooh, really?!" 

"Well, not unless the pencil point br--" SNAP! 

As a wail of anguish split the air, everyone present suddenly remembered an urgent engagement at Yvonne's, or Zorrorojo's, or Amirin's, or even Jantique's, who didn't have a web page but--for what it was worth--did back up everything on floppy disk. 

Left alone, Mona sniffed, sharpened the pencil stub on a nearby rock, sat down and began scribbling furiously. She'd show them who was the Author around here! Just as soon as she figured out how to connect this thing with the Internet. 

**THE END / A BEGINNING**

* * *

End Funeral for a Friend by Jantique: Jantique1020@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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